


Fate Works in Mysterious Ways

by SoundoutiNmRN



Series: Defenders of Azeroth [2]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Body Modification, Earth to Azeroth, Future Vision, Knows of Legion Expantion, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Consensual Body Modification, On Azeroth before Legion Expantion, One Shot, Other, Rae and Velen are bros, Rae played Wow, Reality Crossover, SHES NOT, She doesn't see the future, She tries to remember the future, Sorry Not Sorry, Through science or magic or divine intervention no one knows, Up until WoD, Velen though she was a demon whoops, Velen will keep her secerets, Warlords of Draenor - Freeform, Worgen, Worgen Curse, for now, if anyone was wondering, kinda long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 03:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12334797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoundoutiNmRN/pseuds/SoundoutiNmRN
Summary: Fate is kinda funny, when she wants to be, because somethings were just meant to be.





	Fate Works in Mysterious Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Or
> 
> A companion one-shot to my main story Diary of Rae Whitman, Adventure Extraordinaire, you can read the corresponding entry on Chapter 34: Vigilance Arc: It's Our Time to Break the Rules  
> I hope you enjoy! And if Velen seems a little OOC it's because I can't write... ANyways, enjoy!

He was agitated, something was not… right, within the Exodar. It wasn’t a “bad sort” of agitation, Velen mused. Not the sort of agitation that came with an oncoming vision of the Legion (not that he had many visions nowadays and, even then, most of them had something to do with the Legion anyways), no this was something that only he seemed to be feeling. 

Perhaps it was an old memory of a vision? Light knew he’s had so many of them over his long lifetime that, after awhile, they all just blended together in a chaotic symphony of light and sound and feeling. 

Yes, perhaps it was one of his older visions, in that case… Velen rose from his desk, leaving behind the multitude of treaties and ledgers and various correspondence from the other leaders of the Alliance and some of the Horde, and made his way over to the overflowing shelves of his study. 

He smiled as he sorted through the tomes and scrolls, the familiar language of his people covering the delicate paper pages. Most used storage crystals nowadays, seeing as how they could hold vast amounts of knowledge, were relatively simple to make, and did not take up too much space. It was easy to see why it was a popular choice, but Velen prefered the books and scrolls and tomes-- The flash of a soft lavender cover caught his eye-- Ah, there it was, why it was under the first three volumes of _Advanced Temporal and Spacial Magic and their Infinite Uses_ was beyond him. Perhaps the Eiatro had visited and had left these here, before leaving in his wheezing starcraft and had not returned for them yet. _Or,_ Velen thought dryly. _The more likely case is that he has simply forgotten about them._ He brushed off the millennia old journal, taking special care not to bend the crumbling spine and cover. Yes, Eiatro was forgetful like that. 

Velen paced through his study serenely, flipping through the pages of his oldest journal gently as he searched for the cause of his agitation. Soon the pages began to blur, eyes unseeing as he-- A partially drawn face came into view, one that he had long forgotten and yet… and yet she was familiar. 

He realized, with a start, that he had drawn the face of a young human girl, millennia before their two species had made contact with one another. He skimmed his notes concerning the vrachei, a place, a date, Light, a name, something--anything! Watery green-gold eyes with flecks of blue stared at him imploringly. Unbidden, a memory of times Before reared in his mind: 

_Archimonde, uncorrupted and smiling, teasing the then younger prophet about the strange pale-faced creature from his newest vision._

_“What is it Velen? Kil--Kil’jaeden look,” He shoved the partially finished drawing into the alabaster eradar face, Velen did not need to see his once-brother’s face, his annoyance radiated out in waves. “It’s so ugly! What is it?”_

_Kil’jaeden took the offending piece of art gently and looked it over, he looked at Archimonde, then to Velen, then back to Archimonde. His face carefully blank, save for the sudden spark of mischief in his eyes. “What, are you saying that you can’t even recognize your own mother anymore Archimonde? For shame.”_

_They had laughed, long and hard, Kil’jaeden stifled his snickers, only to be given away by his shaking shoulders, Velen’s laughter ringing out suddenly with mirth and Archimonde’s laughter loudest of them all._

_“I will be telling my mother you said that,” He giggled out. “She’ll beat you with her broom for it too!”_

_Velen had cackled at the thought._

_A jump._

_A different time._

_It was just after._

_“Was there anything else from your vision Velen?” Archimonde--or was it Kil’jaeden?-- who had asked? Everything was blurring around the edges now._

_**“Speak with O’ros.”** Velen’s voice. _

_“O’ros?”_

_“Who--”_

_“--Is--”_

The memory faded. 

“O’ros.” rasped the prophet. He leaned heavily on his desk, shuttering from the old, festering wounds that liked to make themselves known. It was hard. It was always so hard to see them from The Before. Just as it was hard to see them in The After. 

His eyes landed on his journal, the two dimensional eyes of the vrachei female stared back. Green with gold and flecks of blue, “Speak with O’ros.” They whispered. 

_O’ros…_ He knew of O’ros, even then… Light did he feel old. Old and tired and what good was he if-- _Stop it._ He snarled to himself. 

Abruptly Velen stood, journal tucked safely in one of the inner folds of his robes, he made his way from his private chambers and through the Vault of Lights, waving away any of his Vindicators that came his way, “I am only going to speak with O’ros.” He would say, and it was true, was was going to speak with O’ros… He just hoped he would get some answers. 

He walked on, lost in thought, down the sloping ramp that lead to the bottom of the Seat before stopping. He blinked. Once, twice, thrice. Nope, the vrachei female was still there. 

He called a greeting, and received no response. Irritation prickled over his skin, really he did not mind any travelers from the Alliance that happen to pass through his city (however few and far between they may be) but this was a sacred place, not a play ground. 

He moved closer and called out again, asking her to please leave, that this is a sacred place for his people. Still he received no response. Caution quickly replaced the irritation that he felt as he slowly approached the vrachei, but she made no indication that she had heard him. 

Staff positioned defensively he reached out and lightly brushed her shoulder. Her head whipped towards him, eyes wide with surprise. 

_Green-gold eyes with flecks of blue_ , widened with surprise and… awe? 

_Green-gold eyes with flecks of blue_ , watering with unshed tears and a sorrow so deep Velen distantly wondered if there was an end to it. 

_Green-gold eyes with flecks of blue_ , now closed tight against the torrent of tears, a muffled mantra of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m--I’m so so sorry”. 

_Green-gold eyes with flecks of blue_ , gerking away from him out of fear, a deep frown marring her lips. “Guards.” She choked out. “You must-- you must place guards here.” So many questions, not enough answers. Why? “O’ros will die if you don’t.” 

Ice gripped Velen’s heart. O’ros will die? Lies! 

“How do you know this?” He demanded, his voice thunderous, fear racing through his veins. For O’ros, for his people, for himself. “Demon!” He snarled. 

“No! I’m not--! Rakeesh. The Butcher. Rakeesh comes here Velen. Prophet. Prophet Velen.” She shook herself, eyes wide and fearful as her body trembled. “He comes here with his demons and kills O’ros!” 

He moved towards her, “When girl? When?” 

She continued to back away from him, “P-please… I don’t-- I don’t know! I’m sorry! I-- Can’t-- Remember--” She sobbed. “I can’t remember. What use am I, then?” 

The ancient prophet halted mid-step, the echo of her words hitting a sour note within him, he paused, frowning. 

_**(Her world is not of this reality Velen.)**_ O’ros cried quietly. _**(Though it very well may have been taken by the Legion, just as Argus was. She is no demon.)**_

His head whipped to the side, to O’ros, eyes widening with mounting horror. “What?” He felt sick. Images of a corrupted Argus sprang to mind. Light, she was just a child, “How did she…?” How did she get to Azeroth? Where there more of her people with her? He recognized her tabard, bearing the crest of the Cenarion Circle upon it. She was a druid. A druid! Had something happened that forced her into hiding? 

_**(Her world’s Gods most likely.)**_ O’ros chimed. _**(There were surges of power across Azeroth, she found herself across the sea in the home of Genn Greymane.)**_

Velen’s eyes widened in surprise. _Evkanei_. He paused, sighing. “I feel I must apologize, I should not have spoken so harshly to you.” 

“I--” The young woman blinked in surprise, before rubbing the rest of her tears away. “Thank you. Prophet. I would also like to apologize. I should have-- Well I should had done that better, I just--” She floundered for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching in frustration before knotting themselves into her tabard. “Panicked, I guess, seeing you here and-- Wow, you’re an actual person, who has lived for a very, very long time and has seen some pretty horrible shit and I just come waltzing in here and start blurting out shit that hasn’t even come close to happening yet because word vomit and broken brain-to-mouth filters.” 

Velen had regarded her quietly during her tangent. Her manner of speech, a complete one-hundred and eighty from the few words she had spoken. The way she held herself; shoulders hunched and tense, head ducked down; eyes looking everywhere but Velen; shuffling feet, twisted fists, worrying her lips; she expected him to be angry, too-- Light forbid-- _hit_ her. He heaved a heavy sigh, before moving away and watched the tension leave her small frame. “I have questions.” 

“I imagine you do.” She looked him in the eyes then, for the first time since this confrontation started, with such resolve it startled him. “I’ll try to answer them to the best of my ability, so uh, ask away, I guess.” 

“How did you get to Azeroth? Wait, no, your name. What is your name?” Start simple, get to the core of the problem later, if he delved to deep too fast things would raise more questions than answer them. 

The young druid smiled, “Riendeau. Riendeau Whitman, Prophet. And truthfully? I don’t know. The time leading up to my _departure_ ,” Red-rimmed green-gold eyes rolled good-naturedly. “Is fuzzy at best and nonexistent at worse. Probably some sort of divine intervention, or something. I can’t tell you much more than that. Sorry.” 

“I see. How long have you been on Azeroth? We’re there others with you?” Velen looked Riendeau over with a critical eye. “Why is this the first I am hearing about this? Why haven’t you or your people stepped forward?” 

“Wow, okay lots of questions, um. Where to start… Well, I, personally, have been on Azeroth for about…” With a thoughtful look on her face, she began rummaging through her knapsack, before pulling out a slightly water damaged stack of paper. “Assuming Azeroth and Earth, my homeworld, dreadfully unoriginal name I know, share a similar planetary rotation and give or take human error in terms of timekeeping I’d say about six months? Roughly?” She shrugged. “And I have no idea for the other three questions. I mean… I didn’t say anything because I thought this was all some sort of elaborate dream and if it was what would my saying anything matter? I thought this was just short-term, why should I bother getting attached to a fic--” She paused mid-sentence, face screwing up in a mixture of frustration and self-admonishments. “Okay, hear me out. This is going to sound kinda crazy and maybe a little impossible, well you and your people are from another world with some pretty advanced stuff so, maybe, not that crazy. 

“Right, so, on my world we have things called televisions that can show you things happening at different places at different times, some of these things happening very, very far away from where you happen to be.” She paused. “Have I lost you yet?” 

“No,” Velen said. “Continue, please.” 

“Okay, so now that that’s established, we have computers; they’re sort of like TV’s-- sorry, televisions, but calculate thousands of possible outcomes given the right equations to work off of. Like, charting a course for a space ship for example. Now, now my people, compared to where Azeroth is in terms of its industrial revolution, have created an avenue of entertainment to alleviate the boredom that comes with being at the top of the food chain.” There was a certain amount of hesitation as Riendeau paused from her explanation, she searched the Prophet’s face, looking for any signs of negative emotion, satisfied that she found none she continued into the hardest part. 

“There is… a game series called World of Warcraft.” She said. “It, it takes place here. On Azeroth.” Velen stiffened minutely. “You can play a number of races, Humans, Orcs, Trolls and… Draenei… Just to name a few. There are… You start off by creating a new character, before running around the “Starting Zone”, places on Azeroth like Northshire Abbey or The Valley of Trials in Durotar. Places where the tasks given to you wouldn’t kill you straight away.” 

“So this world is a game for your people?” The Prophet asked. 

“For a number of people yes, but not everyone. My-- my Da introduced me, actually…” Laughing wetly she continued. “Man, I’m-- I’m really sorry about this. About everything that’s happened. Just-- I’m sorry.” 

“You are not the cause of my people’s plight, nor are you the cause of all the problems here on Azeroth.” The old Draenei held his hand for silence when the young druid went to speak. “I had heard of the battle for Gilneas and of your part in it. You saved many lives and took on Sylvanas’ army with one of her bat mounts and a bag full of bombs. But, consider, if you had warned Greymane of future you--” 

“I could’ve saved more lives!” Riendeau interrupted hotly. 

“You could have changed everything and would have had no basis to go off of for other events.” 

“I-- Yes, I suppose so but-- but that doesn’t change the fact that I said nothing.” 

“You are not a god.” 

“I--! I know that! I know that. But people are dead because I was too scared to take some sort of action. Because I thought that I wouldn’t be here forever and that it wouldn’t matter. But it does matter. I was responsible-- _am_ responsible-- for their safety. I’m supposed to be a hero dammit-all and--” 

“And you are young, still learning your craft. True you were forged in the fires of war, proving that you have a spine of steel and a heart of fire and a fierce desire to protect, all admirable.” The Prophet smiled gently. “But you have duties to peaceful times. Duties to yourself and Azeroth. Learn them.” 

“I-- Okay.” She nodded to herself. “I think I can do that. But… There are troubled times ahead.” 

Velen hummed in agreement, “So it would seem. Come, we can discuss matters uninterrupted in my private chambers.” He turned to O’ros and bowed his head in farewell, before moving towards the ramp. 

A quiet voice stopped him. “I-er,” He turned and watched the young druid fidget. “I- _technically_ \- shouldn’t be here, seeing as how Greymane left the original Alliance and that the summit for Gilneas’ return hasn’t happened yet, so I can’t be seen outside of Night Elf controlled territory… And, well, I don’t want to cause problems for Greymane and me being here would raise questions. A lot of questions. And I’m not ready to answer them yet because, well, I still need to talk to you, well I mean I am talking to you, but I really need to talk to you and-- s-sorry, I’m rambling.” 

“May I ask how you entered The Exodar?” 

Riendeau paused, surprised by the seemingly random question. “I--uh, in my cat form, cloaked.” 

The Prophet nodded, “Follow me then and stay close.” He then began to make the journey back up to the main level, trusting that Riendeau was not far behind. 

Riendeau watched The Prophet for a moment, quietly marveling at the show of trust she had been given, before turning to O’ros and bowing low at the waist; she twisted, settling down onto four shadowed paws and bounded after the elder draenei, O’ros’ song of light and love and well wishes traveling with her. 

They reached the top of the Seat and moved on towards the Vault of Lights, The Prophet made a request for food and drinks to be brought to his quarters and for no interruptions, barring an emergency. If the vindicators noticed their leader’s unusual shadow they made no mention of it and the two made their way through the Vault of Lights to The Prophet’s private chambers. Two of Velen’s attendants entered moments later, bringing food and drink, and with a bow left as silently as they came. 

Riendeau shifted, looking around in wonder, “I imagine it must look much bigger in person than in your game.” Velen remarked, shuffling some rather official documents off of his study table. 

“What? Oh, no, actually I’ve never seen this room before. I don’t even think it was in the game. Have you read all of these books?” Riendeau asked, picking one up from a nearby pile and mouthing out the title and author, “D.W.? Huh, weird way to sign.” before setting it back down. 

Velen sat back on his study chair thoughtfully, while motioning to the seat across from him. “So not everything from Azeroth makes it onto your… game.” 

“That’s correct.” His guest said. “Places like the Exodar or Teldrassil, for example, are _much_ bigger and more realistic than their game counterparts. Ships look like ships and people have normal body proportions. Also magic exists here so that’s a big difference as well.” 

“I see.” The Prophet hummed quietly, filing away the fact that no magic seems to exist in Riendeau’s world. “You said you needed to speak with me, does it have more to do with your homeworld?” 

“In part yes. But,” Riendeau paused for a moment, digging through her bag she pulled out a oaken leather-bound journal rather than the water stained one. “This is… Well, after I was bit and turned, back in Gilneas, I can’t remember in great detail of what happened. I can remember big things, mostly, but they’re… disjointed, fuzzy. I can’t say with one-hundred-percent certainty of what happens next when. You know?” 

“So you have held off saying anything to Greymane and the other leaders.” 

“Yes. I want to tell them. I really do… But… Well, Azeroth doesn’t have the best track record for dealing with off-worlders--barring you and your people of course!-- The War of the Ancients, when the Burning Legion first came though, then about thirty years ago, I think it was thirty years ago, yeah-yeah, thirty years ago when the First War started when orcs invaded…Uh, The Second War when they rebelled from the camps… And I think the Scourge was a product of the Legion as well. I think. So, yeah, off-worlder who knows a little too much about everything probably wouldn’t be too well received.” 

“You sound so certain that you would be received with negativity.” 

“Well, yeah. I mean. I knew what would happen to Gilneas, with the curse and then with the Forsaken invading shortly thereafter. I knew that Liam would die. Still I said nothing. If I had--” She stopped speaking for a moment and she looked at Velen, really looked at him. “Why did-- Why did you stop being angry? Before, when I told you of Rakeesh. You looked… Grief-stricken.” 

The Prophet sighed, feeling everyone of his years. “Here.” He pulled his oldest journal from out of the pocket in his inner robes and flipped to the page of the vrachei girl, “O’ros told me, told me that you were from another reality and no enemy of my people. You are not a demon, Riendeau, and this is why I am trusting you.” 

“I--Oh.” Riendeau blinked in surprise, she was there, in this journal. Prophet Velen trusted her, knew of her for a millenia. The implications were mind-blowing. “So-So Earth isn’t gone?” The hope in her tone was painful to hear. 

“I-I do not know. O’ros had said that you were from another reality, but that the Legion may have taken it, like they took Argus. I’m sorry.” 

Riendeau nodded mutely. “The Legion will return.” She said. “Not now, I don’t think. But soon. Four-- maybe five-- years at the most.” She closed the Prophet’s journal gently and passed it back to him, along with her own personal journal. “I have a--well a favor, to ask of you Prophet: This journal has everything I remember in it, everything that will happen in the next few years starting with Deathwing’s escape, I ask that you keep it safe. I don’t know what will happen during that time, I may--I may die and-and if that happens…” Her face paled slightly, her eyes focusing on something only she seemed to see, before she came back with a snap! “Once the Summit takes place, hopefully with Gilneas’ readmission to the Alliance, I’ll be traveling as an adventurer in an attempt to jog my memory. I was hoping, if you’re willing, to write to you of anything I can remember I-- I realize that this is very unusual but you’re the only person I trust not to abuse this kind of knowledge.” 

Velen held her journal, thinking over this proposal, the risks he would be taking (hiding this from the other leaders), the risks she would be taking (so many for a child, too many in Velen’s opinion), the dreaded thought of ‘What if word of this got back to Kil’jaeden and Archimonde, they would stop at nothing to erase this kind of information’, but the possibilities… “Your journal will be safe with me, Riendeau, I will tell my attendants to allow letters that you send to me to pass.” 

The young woman’s eyes brightened with relief. “Really? Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me Prophet, truly!” 

Velen regarded the off-worlder, the druid, this young hero, with soft eyes as she chattered away her plans, a long, hard road awaited her, he knew, but perhaps… 

He set her leather-bound journal off to the side, right next to the faded lavender journal of his past. 

_Perhaps, the Legion’s end is close at hand._


End file.
